


Sustainer and Dependent

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: KINK: D/s, KINK: bondage and discipline, KINK: sibling-cest (of a sort), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neil is always exactly what Adam needs. No matter what the need happens to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sustainer and Dependent

**Author's Note:**

> **Prereaders:** @leela_cat and @shinyredrain! ♥ you all like whoa!  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction using familiar names and faces as characters. I do not know them in any way, shape, or form. I'm quite sure that if I did know these people, Neil would _kill_ me for writing this. /o\  
>  **A/N:** Written for [So Hot Out the Bed Berty Vday fest](http://sohotoutthebed.dreamwidth.org/4732.html).

Adam stops short when he walks into his hotel room. The sight of the pillow – _his_ pillow – on the floor beside the bed raises a swell of conflicting emotions. Anger and excitement, humiliation and the hot zip of anticipation unfurl and collide, leaving him a wrecked out, blushing mess.

"Clean up, Adam," Neil says, his tone unyielding and matter-of-fact. "Your supplies are on the counter."

Another wave of embarrassment chokes off any possibility of a vocal reply. Nodding, Adam drops his bag by the door and disappears into the bathroom. 

Fingers drum a fast beat on the other side of the bathroom door and Neil snaps, "Twenty-five minutes. Any more and you'll be in even more trouble."

"Yea…" Adam stops and clears his throat, coming back with a stronger, "Yes, Neil."

His gaze skates over the bathroom, skittering to a stop when he sees the enema kit and string of anal beads next to the sink. Goosebumps break over his skin as a spark of mind-bending _yes, yes, want_ whips down his spine, tingling its way through his ass and balls, settling heavily at the base of his dick.

Adam starts the shower, letting the room fill with steam while he readies the enema kit. 

He shudders through the enema, through the feeling of the warm water filling him, through the rapid flex and release of his muscles, through the urgent need to – and the crazy satisfaction of – release. 

By the time he steps into the shower, Adam's face is flushed and his dick is achingly hard.

He hisses when the hot water hits his skin, a thousand tiny pinpricks dancing over his scalp and chest and back. He drags a washcloth over his body, and beneath the freckles, his pale skin turns a delicate pink. Water and soap sluice over Adam's shoulder, trailing over his collarbone and down his chest, dripping from the stiff peaks of his nipples.

As Adam imagines first his fingers and then the string of beads in his ass, as he thinks about the stretch and burn of the larger beads, his cock jerks, precome leaking from his slit. Moaning, he reaches out with one hand to turn the water off and snatches a towel off the rack with his other.

Drying off is an exercise in self-torment. The rough pull of the terrycloth races over his nerves, over skin heightened from the heat of the shower, pushes his awareness, his need, higher. Skin still damp, he hangs the towel up and breathes slowly until the _fuck, now, please_ is banked into something more manageable, into something he can ignore in favor of finishing his preparations. 

With trembling fingers, Adam opens the tube of Eros Bodyglide and squeezes, spreading the lube over his fingers and then each of the weighted balls in turn. Adding more lube to his fingers, he shifts his legs apart and, bracing his dry hand against the sink, leans on the counter. Letting his breath out slowly, he reaches back and works one finger into his ass.

His reach is limited, hindered by the position, by the fact that it's _his_ fingers twisting and flexing, sliding in and out and back into his hole. Every touch, every push of his fingers is a tease. It's too little, nowhere near enough. It's the promise of more, of what Adam _knows_ is coming, that keeps him working himself open.

Sighing, Adam pulls his hand away from his ass, lube-slicked fingers trailing wet across the counter top. Curling a finger around the string, he tugs the length of anal beads across the counter. The _rat-a-tat-tat_ of each ball vibrates along the counter and against Adam's palm. His breath catches and releases with the same stumbling beat.

Pushing the first anal bead into his hole, he glances up and catches his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are dark and glassy. The skin over his face and his chest, the tight roll of his shoulders, is flushed and dotted with sweat. 

He can't look away. 

Faster than he should, but still slower than he wants, Adam pushes the last of the beads in, releasing a breath through the stretch and burn of the last one, the largest one. Standing up, he holds his breath and shudders as they shift and settle within him.

Adam's reflection shows him what Neil will see. Peaked nipples, his dick hard and wet on the tip. Wanton desperation oozes from every pore. 

There is no denying that he wants this. Here, in the safety of the bathroom, he'll even admit that he _needs_ it.

He hates needing anything.

But he doesn't hate it enough to stop this from playing out. To whisper the one word that would end all of it and lead to a quiet night with pizza and beer, lazy sex and cuddling. 

Squaring his shoulders, Adam opens the bathroom door and steps out, ready for – _wanting_ – what is waiting for him.

≈ ∞ ≈

Neil is leaning against the wall mere feet away from the bathroom door, bare-chested and in a pair of worn denims, the button popped and zip undone. His belt is threaded through the loops, each end hanging alongside his zip, a promise and a threat all rolled up in one. Neil arches one brow and, giving Adam an out, asks, "Yes?"

Adam swallows against the sudden rush of saliva and replies, "Yes."

One arm snakes out and Neil wraps a hand around the back of Adam's neck, drawing him in until there is little more than a slip of air between them. Bussing his lips over Adam's forehead, he says, "Relax, Adam, I've got you."

"I know," Adam whispers. 

With one of Neil's hands on the back of his neck, the other cupped around his hip, Adam lets Neil lead him towards the table alongside the bed, a few measured steps away from the pillow on the floor.

It's all to Neil's demanding standard, Adam is sure. Setting the stage for maximum potential is inherent to Neil's personality, always has been.

The lights are on, just bright enough for Adam to see his reflection in the large mirror hanging on the wall. He lets his eyes flutter shut. He doesn't want to see, doesn't want to watch himself come apart. And he knows that before the night is over, that is exactly what will happen. He'll shatter beneath Neil's hand and trust his brother to fit the pieces back together.

"Open 'em up, Adam," Neil chastises gently, his tone unyielding but so much softer than people would expect, than even Adam has come to expect. Then, when Adam hesitates, Neil adds, "You know the rules."

The rules. Once accepted, the night belongs completely to Neil. Being polite and respectful goes both ways. Snide, snarky comments are left at the door. No hiding, from himself or his brother. No arguing about the scene; he has to trust Neil to know what is needed. 

And apparently tonight, as far as Neil is concerned, Adam needs to watch.

He blinks against the glow of light and then, biting his bottom lip, meets his reflection in the mirror.

Behind him, he sees Neil nod once, approving. "Come on," Neil says, pushing at Adam's shoulder until Adam bends and drapes himself across the blanket-covered dining table. 

The plush blanket, a deep navy blue, is the one Adam uses on the bus. The one Adam curls beneath after concerts while the rocking motion of the bus draws him into sleep. This blanket, just as much as the mirror, is part of Neil's design. He's giving Adam what he knows Adam needs, tangible things to to sustain him once the sting and ache in his ass fades, after the stripes from the belt are gone.

They're the connection that will help Adam keep his center, find the balance that, beneath the rush of the tour, usually dances just outside his reach.

That connection keeps him from tipping into the abyss more often than he does.

Sighing, Adam settles against the hard face of the table, holding his body taut, the blanket doing little more than keeping the cold edges of the table from bruising his skin. Here, now, like this, his bruises, like so much else, belong to Neil.

Neil drags a hand down the center of Adam's back, blunt nails scratching over each knob of his spine. "Deep, easy breaths, Adam. In through the nose and out through the mouth."

The hand resting in the small of his back grounds Adam. The warmth, the heaviness gives Adam something to focus on. He draws in a breath, holds it for a slow count of five, and then releases it, letting the air escape between his lips. 

"Again," Neil says. Then, his voice softer, "And again."

It takes five full cycles, _again, Adam_ and _again_ , before the tension in Adam's shoulders bleeds away and he goes completely lax against the hard table. 

Humming, Neil drags a hand over Adam's ass and squats between the spread of his legs. Tapping Adam's left ankle, he says, "Wider."

Adam shuffles his feet over the carpet until Neil says, "Right there."

Doing first the left and then the right, Neil wraps the quick ties around each of Adam's ankles and the closest table legs, pinning Adam in place with his legs spread and his ass on display. Reaching a hand between Adam's legs, Neil adjusts Adam's cock, pulling it back and down, away from the friction that the table and blanket would have given him.

The heat of humiliation, of personal shame, burns a path across Adam's face. Then Neil rubs his hands over Adam's thighs, tugs gently on the string of the anal beads, and, as fast as the embarrassment washed over Adam, the urge to hide dissipates, morphing into a hungry impatience of _more_ and _now_ and _ho, fuck, please_. Adam pulls in a ragged breath and whispers, "Neil."

"Breathe, Adam," Neil replies, stepping around the table, pulling Adam's arms wide and tying them into place with a combination of cuffs and d-rings and lengths of black hemp rope. Running a finger around the edge of the cuffs, Neil asks, "Not too tight?"

Cheek flat against the table, Adam tries to shake his head, then, when he realizes just how tightly Neil has him bound, says, "It's perfect."

"Keep them open," Neil murmurs, scratching his fingers through Adam's hair. Then he reaches for the buckle on his belt and pulls, tugging his belt free in a single steady movement. "Fifteen, Adam."

"Fifteen," Adam returns. 

Neil moves into place, steps in between Adam and one of the lamps, reducing Neil's reflection in the mirror to nothing more than a silhouette. It forces Adam to focus on himself. To see and watch and _accept_.

The leather strap dances lightly over the swell of Adam's ass. "Why am I strapping your ass?"

Adam's throat tightens, words and emotions converging and overwhelming him. He hates, _hates_ this part of it, the demand that he acknowledge and verbalize, own his actions and words.

The belt lands again, snapping loud and hard across Adam's ass. "Answer me."

Neil never lets Adam slide, always makes him own his shit. It's why Adam trusts Neil with this, trusts Neil with his _everything_. Swallowing, Adam forces the words out, "I lost my temper."

Another light tap of the belt and Adam amends his answer. "I didn't tell you I was spiraling so close to losing it."

"Better," Neil hums. "Fifteen, you count." Then Neil leans in and, his breath ghosting over Adam's ear, adds, "Don't lose count, Adam. I can start over at one all night long."

Apprehension and excitement burst through Adam, erupting as a low gurgle in his throat. 

And then they begin.

Adam watches the mirror, focuses on the outline of Neil's body, the steady rise and fall of his arm.

_one… two… three… four…_

He refuses to look at himself. He doesn't want to face the need, the desire, the utter shamelessness he knows will be staring back at him. 

It'll be too raw, too honest, to fit with where he is now. With _who_ he's demanding he be.

_five… six… seven…_

Adam's eyes smart with tears. The salty proof of his anger, his turmoil, leaks out, rolling over his lashes and across the bridge of his nose, marking a wet path into his hairline and onto the blanket beneath him. He can't – _won't_ – let himself break, let himself feel and see and know that this is who he is, that this is what he needs. He's too caught up in being what and who everyone expects him to be. The leader, the entertainer, the friend. 

He's lost sight of Adam, of the very basics of who he is. 

His erection starts to wane, his arousal succumbing to the bitter taste of disappointment. Disappointment in himself, in how he's been acting and in the fact that he even has to act at all. Disappointment that now, stripped bare and tied down, he's still acting, still holding onto the facade, the image of strength and control, refusing to let anyone see, refusing to let Neil see, to let _himself_ see that he needs.

Needs so much.

_eight… nine…_

Adam's on the verge of saying his safe word, ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat. It'd be so easy. A whispered _Linus_ and it'll end, he'd be able to curl up beneath his blanket and push the entire world away.

Then the belt lands heavy against the vulnerable juncture of his ass and thigh, wrapping around and clipping the tender flesh of his inner thigh and, shocked out of his thoughts, Adam shouts, "Ten!"

Eleven falls in the exact same place and a trail of fire licks and burns across Adam's ass. Under the rush of pain and onslaught of endorphins, his arousal flares back to life. With his dick hard and leaking, his ass throbbing and flashpoint hot, the stoic resolve he's been clinging to crumbles.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Adam mumbles, blinking against the fresh bout of tears. Tears that have nothing to do with disappointment and everything to do with the hot stripes being laid across his backside. "Neil, fuck. Twelve."

"Let go, Adam," Neil replies, strong and sure and confident. "Sink into it. I know you want to."

"Thirteen," Adam moans, finally looking at – _owning_ – what he sees in his reflection. The difference, the change in his appearance between after his shower to now, makes him gasp. He's softer, the hard lines of his face have relaxed, revealing everything he's feeling. The need is there, but it's matched with understanding, an acceptance of himself. 

"That's it," Neil murmurs, dragging his free hand over the welts rising on Adam's ass.

"Four…" Adam swallows, fighting the sudden, near overpowering, longing to come _right the fuck now_. "Fourteen."

Neil's fingers flit down the crack of Adam's ass, sliding through sweat and lube, tracing around the sensitive skin of Adam's hole. Unadulterated want bites along Adam's nerves.

"Last one," Neil says, seconds before the belt whistles through the air.

The belt slaps down on Adam's ass, snapping sharp against the skin. Adam sucks in a breath, harsh and uneven. The room catches in a vacuum of motionless silence for a count of _one… two… five_ then everything rushes forward, coming alive with a flood of sounds and scents and feelings. Adam gasps, "Fifteen," just as Neil leans in and, his fingers tugging the string of beads free from Adam's ass, whispers, "Now, Adam. Let it go, _now_."

Wallowing in the kaleidoscope of colors exploding over and around him, Adam lets go, coming and crying and going boneless against the table. He drifts in the buzz of white noise brought on by sated exhaustion, sexually and emotionally spent.

He hears – _feels_ – Neil moving around him. Releasing his wrists, undoing the quick ties around his ankles. Then another blanket covers his shoulders, this one saturated in Neil's scent. Adam knows that if he opens his eyes he'll see the chocolate brown blanket that Neil has dragged around for years.

"Come on, Addy," Neil murmurs, pulling Adam against his chest, encircling him with his arms. 

Adam burrows into Neil's embrace, soaks up the nonsensical words of praise Neil whispers while he leads Adam from the table to the pillow a few feet away. He goes to his knees without prompting, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. 

He sighs when Neil wipes his face with a warm rag and then sags against Neil, pushing his cheek against Neil's thigh. Voice raspy, Adam says, "Thank you."

Neil pushes a straw between Adam's lips, arching a brow until Adam sucks down a few mouthfuls of water. Then, fingers scratching through Adam's hair, Neil replies, "Always."

Adam pushes in closer and then closes his eyes, settled and content. "You're an awesome brother."

Softly, Neil says, "Both ways, Adam. It's always been both ways."

Adam nods. Neil is right. It's who they are, what they've been to each other for years. Ever changing variations of a constant: sustainer and dependent.

_He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent… my equal._

~Gregg Levoy


End file.
